What makes me wanna write?

I was invited to be interviewed about being a writer (to be publicized soon) and was asked a number of questions, one of them about what inspires/motivates me to write, and when I got into it, I realized I'd gone on a bit and my answer to that one question, in its entirety, couldn't possibly be used owing to it's length - 1454 words, and so I'm depositing it here instead to add to my other posts about my writing journey - and perhaps as an appendix, should anyone reading the actual interview be a glutton for punishment - and also because I've been very busy lately, and haven't done a post in a while.  Enjoy.

***

First and foremost I write for myself, and I’m being quite serious when I say I quantum leap into the (fabricated) worlds I create when I do.

‘Whaaa…?’

You heard.

But easy to do when you know how; understand our planet’s indentation upon the fabric of space and therefore the gravitational pull of the various dimensions ensnared by it that enables a creative mind to traverse with a hop, skip and a… well… quantum leap… into the elementary; the ability to connect everything in the universe between A and B let alone all the way to Z making for interesting inventions indeed.  How could they not be told?

“Is this guy for real?”

I’m afraid so, but only in the literal sense, otherwise I’m largely considered a weirdo anomaly, so much so that when I enter a room I cause it to become lopsided.  But I like to think of myself as a wonderful eccentric, even though I’m not; better than my artistic sensibility becoming mistranslated.  But that’s what a black hole where the unknown dwells in infinite state will do for a writer such as me; one who strives to try and be unique; shock a little here and there; simply futile to even try and resist the gravitational pull because somewhere therein, for such a person as I, lies home, and everyone needs a place to relax?  Right?

“Huh?’

Please keep up.  In other words, the need to express the gift of an unusual imagination in storytelling is inherent; affords an escapism that can’t, at least for me, be found on our four-dimensional plane.  Such a mind is so fully integrated in alternate existence that the impossible is the only place where a lone-wolf might feel they belong – and wolves can do that these days, can’t they; space travel?  Or at least, werewolves do - even though I’ve never seen any of those particular creatures when I’m flying around up there - but an irresistible pastime; writing; the den of the universe calling me to mine its abyss of ingenuity, where, what hopefully emerges on paper upon my return, is new life, new worlds and a story that no man has written before.  Enterprising indeed.  Yes, I like to think of myself as Ashtar, spreading stardust wherever I go.

Who?

Oh… nobody; just some alien from the 50s, I'm sorry if you expected Picard.

But trekking through the stars and cheap metaphors about a popular TV franchise and an entity that people channel on New Years Eve aside, I’m an introvert, a true lone wolf, a little bit strange, and writing allows my soul to bare its teeth fully in a way that’s just not acceptable in person – but then that might be my propensity for dressing up as Mediaeval French royalty, I don’t know.  But as a fairly complex person, apparently, I couldn’t possibly go into the ins and outs of who I am fully here, but I did write a very heartfelt piece about what makes me me, entitled ‘Precipice of an Alternate Plane’, a few months ago, that attempts to explain away the strangeness of me as well as anything ever could I guess; inspired to write something from my heart by the late Nora Ephron’s piece on death, which really touched me in that how honest it was.   But it’s a piece, if you were to look closely enough, that might explain just how I, and no doubt, many other inspired anomalies, see the world differently from most; literally not taken in by it, not feeling embraced, possessing a kind of x-ray vision, allowing us to see it being played out very differently, insisting on keeping us at arm’s length despite our best efforts of, as the song goes, putting the right one in in the first place, followed by an awkward left leg; everything, seemingly basic at every turn, with alternate essence, simply begging to be reinvented by the art of storytelling.

“Oh… I see…,”said the blind man.

No you don't.  But anyhoo, we simply can’t help it; and even though it can often be to our detriment; becoming even more ostracised; obsessed to the point where we allow it to affect our health and listen to its insistence that we forego other perhaps more financially promising careers, an artist does what an artist does because it’s truly a calling – unlike the cameo character, Sister Betty in Prickly Scots, who, for the want of anything else to do, only became a nun after her husband left her penniless and nowhere else to go, but still she manages to find a way to buy cigarettes, crafty bitch.

But there’s an honesty that we can get away with in fiction that’s perhaps by-the-wayside in real life; society, and very much so in art, inclined to be automaton, and so recreating it somewhat satiates my need for humour, which even my more literary works are filled with, and a perfect way to not get into trouble with my ‘say it as is’, ‘no nonsense’ attitude that I’ve needed to learn to curtail somewhat.  The small hope is that, should they become successful enough, they might influence others into thinking along new lines.  In writing, people tend to find rudeness amusing, a tad outrageous, admirable even, and that's great, I think that we should laugh at ourselves more; our current climate far too politically correct sometimes.

In fact, total honesty is a prerequisite for every aspect of my life, sometimes to my detriment; a tad obsessive compulsive about it, I know; intolerant of anything that doesn’t ring true, even in fiction, for I cannot read, and certainly not write that if I can’t see it being played out authentically in my mind’s eye despite the fabricated nature of it.

I think my approach affords my characters an interesting angle though, regardless of whether they’re aliens or monsters, a nasty old lady or a precocious child, whatever, nothing and nobody as perfect as a lot of writers seem to want to make their worlds and their protagonists because, in general, that’s how its always been.  And so I feel, with my sometimes completely annoying ability for omniscience, ‘seeing’ people the way I do, that this translates into believable eccentrics that the reader can, on some level, identify with better while still maintaining a degree of awe for fictional characters, and it also affords abundant opportunity for me to develop them in a way perhaps readers might secretly relate to outside of our largely sugar-coated world.

“Did he just digress to the point where I have no idea what he’s talking about anymore?”  Probably, I do that; makes you read pieces like this more than once; get over it. ”But most people might just say they write because they love to, for fuc…  I mean… Heaven’s sake.”

Yes well, I’m not most people; please pay attention… and there’s absolutely no need for expletives or blasphemy… thank you very much.

But I guess my point is, I see inspiration everywhere, and I mean absolutely everywhere; cursed, it feels like sometimes, but it all builds up into what I call ‘FBI’ profiles for my characters/stories, and so I hope that those who dip their toes into the extra-terrestrial tides of the oceans I swim, that it will ultimately entertain them too.

“Whaaa…?”

Yeah, you heard, get over it; I’m a writer; I’m allowed to get like, all fancy… and shit.

Hardly mainstream though, and I won’t compromise, but that’s another matter; whether people like my writing or not, is, quite frankly, largely irrelevant to me; and even though I’d really like them to, again first and foremost I do write for me, myself and I.  It is always a pleasure though, when I see readers gain some unexpected delight from my unusual style, and I really appreciate that.  Discerning types, obviously.

I believe writers are therapists, psychologists and comedians, gatekeepers to Escapasia, inventors (obviously, ‘cos I just made that last word up lest you couldn’t tell) books, simply portals to other dimensions where anything is possible.  They’re educators, motivators and inspirers.  Who knows what a good story teller arouses in others, what dreams they elicit, the wings of imagination that they set in flight.

“Okay, puke... enough already; I get it.”

Yeah… I agree.

But what really motivated me in the first instance, was the worlds I became lost in in my childhood; reading every Enid Blyton book I could lay my hands on; a writer that transported me into her exciting worlds in the same way, I guess, that JK did for a whole new generation.  And despite writing first and foremost because I love to do it, I would also love to think that someone, somewhere, got the same experience as that from something I’ve written.

“Aww… I actually understood that bit.“

Uh huh.

Writing is a journey

I often think of my writing journey as an expedition through the mountains – and not just the local kind either; the ones you can drive up and take a seat on a bench to admire the sunset over the city, no; I’m talking Rockies here. Precipitous terrain. And what better than animal guides to lead the way?

And when I started out that venture, an intensely passionate young wolf, treading ahead without observing the lay of the land, I met with a sheer cliff-face, scoffing, demanding I turn around, tail between my legs.

Like many, I started writing without having the slightest clue, simply penning from the heart because the gift is inherent. But, as I soon found out, that was incredibly naïve; much more than just that required.

An otter, quirky, unorthodox, my passion intrinsic, but what did I know of the mountain at all, the intimacy of its spiritual essence, its magnitude of pride & honour commanding to be scaled?

I unapologetically broke every rule that I didn’t know existed. Never knowing when to stop writing, until 600,000 words later. And with zero editing, I proudly printed off my amazing book and hired a forklift truck to take it up the post office to send it off to a publisher without even having queried them first. Ye-s, not long before I’d become the next J K Rowling. Ha!

A raven, highly enthusiastic, perched atop lofty peaks, my name whistling between. Ye-s, I’d soar that mountainous terrain. But I plummet instead, spiralling and splattering.

And then I discovered an amateur writing site, where immediately I felt intimidated; people’s ability putting my efforts to shame; using words like ‘exposition’ and ‘verisimilitude’ that I didn’t even understand, let alone have a clue as to how to apply them to my work.

A lame goose now, limping treacherous, infinite lands where I encounter many an obstacle; scaling icy plateaus that slip me down deceptive paths into mouths of predators.

Obviously I’d a great deal to learn, and so I dove right in, surprisingly being quite well received for a novice. ‘Encouraging.” And I soaked up reviews on not only my, but everyone else’s work, embraced constructive criticism while seeing others becoming highly defensive, not willing to learn (and who still can be; the same folks not moved on any; their writing unchanged, still amateur after all these years).

And now I swim a mountain torrent; a salmon, electric, focused, intuitive and wholly creative. Upstream, to pinnacles low, but the vista hazy, a mist lingering a precipice that still I might plunge.

I learned how and how not to interact with online society; the written word not always perceived as intended – especially amid different culture; easily lost in translation – and becoming annoyed at the sugar-coating being sprinkled liberally, artificial sweetening that, despite what they say, still begets rot. And then I found my clique; invited to a writers’ critique group where people stirred cups of libretto without taking sugar at all.

I build a dam upon those that would battle my wit to cross the river, for I am beaver, hear me… well… thump… really. Cunning. My mental acuity, razor sharp, but compassionate, generous, helpful and loyal too.

In this more ‘serious’ writers’ group, I discovered the importance of presentation in ways that maybe I hadn’t really thought of: similar size paragraphs; a mixture of long and short sentences; avoiding passive voice; learning how to use semicolons properly; the importance of consistent tense; avoiding the word ‘was’; how to show and not tell, and much, much more – invaluable stuff for a newbie.

Pragmatic, methodical, reaching higher plateaus where, as a bear, I enter a den and prance out a deer, discover my humour, a natural intelligence that, when combined, will write me well.

And then, going onto my first writing course, I pleasantly found that it’d all prepared me; I wasn’t clueless; actually had an inkling of much that I was to be taught in class. But still, a great deal to learn: the formulaic and technical aspects; how to create ‘FBI profiles’ for primary and secondary characters; what they should and shouldn’t be doing, and finally realising that one needed to develop an intimate relationship with anything before effectively dumping its rulebook ass.

And earned, those wings, I have, soaring now, eagle-eyed, holier-than-thou, over a mountain pass, a road to nowhere on which I spy people driving, blinkered, believing they can bypass monumental obstacles with the greatest of ease.

The point is I believe something like joining a writing site is necessary for any writer. An ‘apprenticeship’ if you like. But I wonder in this age of indie publishing if they’re being forsaken; new writers going straight for the jugular; publishing their stories without any kind of training at all, and perhaps wondering why they can’t even give their books away?

And some might just be; the writing site that I’m (still) technically a member of has all but crumbled; been stagnant for months; not updated by its administrators. And that’s a shame, for some kind of basic training just makes ‘sheer’ sense. Doesn’t it? Not even Sir Edmund Hillary decided to scale Everest without having some know how.

Oh yes, and those 600k words I mentioned? Hardest thing I ever did was to edit that story time and time again as my writing ability evolved. Today though, I credit it for me putting into practice everything I ever learned. Yes, an invaluable tool, although I really wouldn’t recommend doing it that way at all; save yourself the trouble; learn how to write properly from the outset. It’s all grown up now, divided into two books @ 200k each, and I’ve very proud of my first born, even if it’s teen years were terrible.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a rather belligerent little Sherpa waiting….

(Originally published as a guest post on Indies Unlimited)

Writing is a journey

I often think of my writing journey as an expedition through the mountains – and not just the local kind either; the ones you can drive up and take a seat on a bench to admire the sunset over the city, no; I’m talking Rockies here. Precipitous terrain. And what better than animal guides to lead the way?

And when I started out that venture, an intensely passionate young wolf, treading ahead without observing the lay of the land, I met with a sheer cliff-face, scoffing, demanding I turn around, tail between my legs.

Like many, I started writing without having the slightest clue, simply penning from the heart because the gift is inherent. But, as I soon found out, that was incredibly naïve; much more than just that required.

An otter, quirky, unorthodox, my passion intrinsic, but what did I know of the mountain at all, the intimacy of its spiritual essence, its magnitude of pride & honour commanding to be scaled?

I unapologetically broke every rule that I didn’t know existed. Never knowing when to stop writing, until 600,000 words later. And with zero editing, I proudly printed off my amazing book and hired a forklift truck to take it up the post office to send it off to a publisher without even having queried them first. Ye-s, not long before I’d become the next J K Rowling. Ha!

A raven, highly enthusiastic, perched atop lofty peaks, my name whistling between. Ye-s, I’d soar that mountainous terrain. But I plummet instead, spiralling and splattering.

And then I discovered an amateur writing site, where immediately I felt intimidated; people’s ability putting my efforts to shame; using words like ‘exposition’ and ‘verisimilitude’ that I didn’t even understand, let alone have a clue as to how to apply them to my work.

A lame goose now, limping treacherous, infinite lands where I encounter many an obstacle; scaling icy plateaus that slip me down deceptive paths into mouths of predators.

Obviously I’d a great deal to learn, and so I dove right in, surprisingly being quite well received for a novice. ‘Encouraging.” And I soaked up reviews on not only my, but everyone else’s work, embraced constructive criticism while seeing others becoming highly defensive, not willing to learn (and who still can be; the same folks not moved on any; their writing unchanged, still amateur after all these years).

And now I swim a mountain torrent; a salmon, electric, focused, intuitive and wholly creative. Upstream, to pinnacles low, but the vista hazy, a mist lingering a precipice that still I might plunge.

I learned how and how not to interact with online society; the written word not always perceived as intended – especially amid different culture; easily lost in translation – and becoming annoyed at the sugar-coating being sprinkled liberally, artificial sweetening that, despite what they say, still begets rot. And then I found my clique; invited to a writers’ critique group where people stirred cups of libretto without taking sugar at all.

I build a dam upon those that would battle my wit to cross the river, for I am beaver, hear me… well… thump… really. Cunning. My mental acuity, razor sharp, but compassionate, generous, helpful and loyal too.

In this more ‘serious’ writers’ group, I discovered the importance of presentation in ways that maybe I hadn’t really thought of: similar size paragraphs; a mixture of long and short sentences; avoiding passive voice; learning how to use semicolons properly; the importance of consistent tense; avoiding the word ‘was’; how to show and not tell, and much, much more – invaluable stuff for a newbie.

Pragmatic, methodical, reaching higher plateaus where, as a bear, I enter a den and prance out a deer, discover my humour, a natural intelligence that, when combined, will write me well.

And then, going onto my first writing course, I pleasantly found that it’d all prepared me; I wasn’t clueless; actually had an inkling of much that I was to be taught in class. But still, a great deal to learn: the formulaic and technical aspects; how to create ‘FBI profiles’ for primary and secondary characters; what they should and shouldn’t be doing, and finally realising that one needed to develop an intimate relationship with anything before effectively dumping its rulebook ass.

And earned, those wings, I have, soaring now, eagle-eyed, holier-than-thou, over a mountain pass, a road to nowhere on which I spy people driving, blinkered, believing they can bypass monumental obstacles with the greatest of ease.

The point is I believe something like joining a writing site is necessary for any writer. An ‘apprenticeship’ if you like. But I wonder in this age of indie publishing if they’re being forsaken; new writers going straight for the jugular; publishing their stories without any kind of training at all, and perhaps wondering why they can’t even give their books away?

And some might just be; the writing site that I’m (still) technically a member of has all but crumbled; been stagnant for months; not updated by its administrators. And that’s a shame, for some kind of basic training just makes ‘sheer’ sense. Doesn’t it? Not even Sir Edmund Hillary decided to scale Everest without having some know how.

Oh yes, and those 600k words I mentioned? Hardest thing I ever did was to edit that story time and time again as my writing ability evolved. Today though, I credit it for me putting into practice everything I ever learned. Yes, an invaluable tool, although I really wouldn’t recommend doing it that way at all; save yourself the trouble; learn how to write properly from the outset. It’s all grown up now, divided into two books @ 200k each, and I’ve very proud of my first born, even if it’s teen years were terrible.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a rather belligerent little Sherpa waiting….

(Originally published as a guest post on Indies Unlimited)

'Ankle' sock puppeteers...?

No writer wants a bad review, but I think overly exuberant reviews, when they come from people they know, can be just as damaging.

The writing of reviews, it seems, these days, almost demands perhaps as much skill as the author of the book itself, many different kinds, genres in themselves if you like; those that are genuine usually entirely evident, but those that've been written by close acquaintances, sticking out like sore thumbs; not fooling anyone.  And outside of sock puppeteers, who are just downright losers, such reviews are almost equally annoying, not to mention detrimental to the success of that book regardless of how well intended they are.  Can turn a potential reader away.

For instance, below is usually the kind of thing written by family or friends (perhaps a bit over the top by example, but you get the gist) or those people that you struck up a rapport with on your writing journey; other writers still in the early stages of their own journey maybe, but people who don't realise yet that the rest of us with more experience have become increasingly savvy about such things.  And all trying to help, yes, but usually even the greatest works don't come with such glowing recommendation as some of the reviews we can see have attached to them, and so they can actually have the exact opposite effect - especially when we read the sample of the work they pertain to, for I don't know about the rest of the population, but a writer can usually tell from the first few words of anything as to whether it was written by someone who's taken the time to learn at least something of their craft or not, but certainly a discerning reader will soon be able to tell bad from good too, regardless of what the reviews say.

"This was the best book in the history of the world, I highly recommend that you put down whatever you are reading now because, nothing, and I mean NOTHING will ever match up to this masterpiece by this exciting new author who has broken new ground and kept me so enthralled by this storyline that I neglected my kids and took a few days off work to finish it.  My life will never be the same again; I just wanted to dive into that world, for I truly felt I'd become a part of it. I have never read anything quite as good as this in my entire life.  Off now to buy every other title by my son/daughter/bestie/dad/mum/cleaner/hairdresser/myself.

If I could give more than five stars, I would."

Personally, not many people in my real life have read my own books, and I prefer it like that, because they don't have to like my books because of our relationship, that's just ridiculous, but in general, while we all know that, no one ever says they don't, not usually anyway, everybody so sugar-sweet, scared to offend, they'll usually say they do.  But if they have read my work, they can have a tendency to ask me what I want them to say in their review.  Sweet sentiment, but entirely annoying; I would hope that they enjoyed it enough to formulate their own opinion.

"Whatever it was it made you feel."  Is usually what I say, and they look at me more funnily than normal, even, I imagine, over email; wondering why I'm passing up the opportunity to manipulate a potential five star review - but then they're not in my writing world; they don't know the obvious nature of these things.  "Unless of course you hated it, and then I'd really prefer you didn't publicise an opinion." - which, seemingly goes against my point about honesty in reviews, but is just being honest, for no writer actually wants to see a bad review, no review at all being better imho.

I've never really had a bad review, my couple of three stars still very good comments, just weren't to both those people's tastes in that particular book's entirety, and I know that's because, whether you like my stories or not, I do strive to present the best possible work according to where I am in my writer's journey, have studied the art, I do slave over my words, a bit obsessive compulsive with them actually, and so for the most part, your 'bad review' could only be so maybe because of a matter of taste - but then we would hope that you'd be able to decide that from the very beginning, from the synopsis and the sample, and that you'd move on to a work more suited.

I get it though; those close to us want to show their support, and giving an honest review with anything less than five stars could potentially cause an atmosphere between us - as far as they're concerned - it's just not what you do when you know the writer personally; your duty to show support regardless, as most do with most anything else in life.  And so the old cliché about not mixing business with pleasure has never been truer in my opinion, than the personal friends of an author when reviewing their books.

I have even gone as far as asking my online writer associates to be less than exuberant in their reviews, have stressed the need for them to be honest, as over enthusiastic reviews are obvious - as we're all coming to know in the world of indie publishing.  I've even had some writers change theirs from something akin to the example above, suggesting to them what they might focus on, but only if they agree, and by example, I try to review their work completely honestly too, no sugar coating, concentrating on what I thought was good about it only, contacting them personally if there was something about the story I thought was completely lacking to the point that I felt I could only give a bad review if I were to be sincere, usually choosing not to give one at all.  And so, if they can't take that level of honesty which is only intended to help, they have no place in my circle of writer friends.  But then, I think they all know that about me by now, as do the people in my 'real' life.

I sometimes have no interest in the genre they write in either, e.g. if its overly religious, and so I don't want to read it at all, and sometimes when I have felt obligated to reciprocate, I've just become completely annoyed with it, and so I tell them so.  It doesn't mean it's bad, no, its just not for me, and in those cases, I just cannot bring myself to write a review - after all, as a completely honest person (of whom you should be entirely aware, apparently, for having stated that here about myself in the first place) saying there that 'I hate this kind of thing' might not go down too well, would cause a rift.  And of course, it could be the best thing since sliced bread for those who do like to get all spiritual and shit, but I'm just not qualified, or at least not the best person to judge, because I would never have looked twice at that book normally if I'd never known the person who wrote it.

There are many other kinds of reviews too; those that simply provide a synopsis of the story; information already on the book's page, sometimes with spoilers, but not mentioning the cleverness, the characterisation, the eloquence and other stuff we as writers would prefer to see mentioned, recognition of the fact that what we worked really hard at trying to put across; the emotion we wanted to induce from a reader, all better than another recap of the story.  And while some are completely innocently written almost as synopses, I can't help but think that some reviewers either do this thinking that they're helping, or maybe because they really have nothing good to say at all - and in which case it would be better not to comment.  Or maybe, it's just that, as many say, they're not writers themselves, and therefore feel a bit intimidated, don't know what the hell to say, but feel they have to put down something out of respect because they do know you.  But that's alright, even a couple of words, like, 'I really enjoyed this book' comes across more genuine than an over the top rave review - unless of course the book really does merit one, and that, I can't help but think, will come across too; the words will magically appear without you even trying; not as contrived as a review that'd been manufactured to try and say the same thing.

I have some such genuine comments on some of my own works and, that if I'd known those people personally, I might've asked them to bring it down a notch, but then, perhaps I'm analysing too much; think people will be suspicious of them because of what does go on, but perhaps I'm looking wa-y too hard and I tell myself that I do have to remember that some people really do enjoy people's books that much where they do become almost animated about it.  And that is always highly appreciated.

It's often said that writers are good 'liars' because they spend their time creating stories, I know I am, but I only use my powers for good in giving reviews and in life, could never feel comfortable 'sock-puppeting', would feel ashamed of myself; kidding no one but me, despite my skill for being creative in that I could be entirely convincing that they'd been written by someone else; know how to change writing styles accordingly.  But this kind of tactic just wouldn't sit well with the essence of who I am, would have the exact opposite effect on me in fact; I'd feel like a total loser, I'd know they weren't real, and so I guess I have a good sense of integrity, which is why I can sleep at night; no, no one can ever accuse me of such underhanded practice should I ever become that well known.

I can't help but think a good review is one that does rave a bit, does give four or five stars, but also, somewhere in-between the glowing recommendation maybe something else pointed out about it too (but, again, only if merited; don't go looking for it) not necessarily negative, per se, but simply an opinion, perhaps an element the reader would liked to have seen or didn't enjoy too much, or what they felt might've been better. Whatever, but a good balanced opinion, and most of all, a good honest review, for it is often this that readers judge a book by, and especially, other writers; I know I do.

Lastly, I do see this topic coming up all the time, as I do blogs and comments expressing a general intolerance of people who've never tried in any way to hone their craft, simply vomiting up a story and putting it up for sale because they can; most not realising that, like anything, writing is a trained skill, yes, even the best talent needs honed to be able to present a professional body of work.  And so, I think it's only a matter of time before those people realise that they'll get absolutely nowhere with that kind of approach, together with creating false reviews, or by allowing their friends to write glowing references for them, which as I've said, speak for themselves, for ultimately they'll make absolutely no money - which is surely why they're doing it as opposed to the 'love' that a real writer has for the written word, the laborious part of it treasured, embraced, as it should be.  And when they get fed up with trying, realise that the rest of us or onto them, then perhaps things really will settle down as they disappear, and we who try to do it all the honest way, the hard way, won't be grouped in and bogged down with all the bad apples that are currently in that barrow for sale.  A candied apple might be attractive on the surface, but it needs to be succulent on the inside too.

These dog treats will kill your dog... VERY suddenly.

I just watched a very interesting documentary on CBC's Marketplace about this popular chicken jerky treat which I've always bought at Costco; thousands of dogs are dying all over... including my last one... of sudden kidney disease because of these treats, and its been going on for years.

There is something in the glycerin.  Check out their Facebook page to see what others say, and also the CBC's website on this documentary which, I  understand is also going to air through the US on Saturday 29 September.

These and other treats made in China, should be avoided at all cost.  And the packaging, as do many dog treats, fool you into THINKING they're made in your own country.  Canada, doesn't even have regulation for dog food.

Love, your dog?  Spread the word.


CBC Article/video
Waggin' Train's Facebook page

This documentary on Marketplace, made me truly angry; I gave my dog a Waggin' Train chicken jerky treat every day and he too died very suddenly of kidney disease. Thankfully, I haven't been to Costco in months, where I used to buy them, so my current dog hasn't had any for a long time, but coincidentally, or is it, as a young dog, he no longer gets sick like he used to for no apparent reason. 

Rest assured I will do my part in spreading the word about this. It also makes me sick that there is no regulation of dog food in Canada. I don't care what this company's videos say, how they spin it; all the tests that came back from various countries, with suspicious elements in them, belonged to Waggin Train treats all made in China. 

That's good enough for me.

My book is being showcased today

Today 'Indies Unlimited' are featuring my new and improved Prickly Scots book on their wonderful site dedicated to showcasing indie writers.  So I would truly appreciate your support to help spread the word by coming and clicking on any or all of the social media buttons on its page, and even if you could leave a word or two, that would be amazing.  My writer friends, I'm relying on you especially, and If you haven't heard of Indies Unlimited, it offers many different ways for quality indie authors to get noticed; sneak peeks like this, which also includes getting listed in their library for a year, guest posts, competitions, and all manners of other interesting ways.  you should check it out.  Please don't make me look like a 'Billy-no-mates now, will ya?'

Thanks for your help and support.  Click here to take a look at the sneak peek and hopefully you will click on the social media buttons below it - just pretend its one of those meme cartoon thingies or a cat picture.

My writing journey over the Alps

As I wandered through those Alps; arduous, never-ending, I encountered many an obstacle along the journey; reached icy plateaus demanding I go back the way I came, to re-tread paths that I thought I'd conquered, and becoming stuck there, sometimes, exhausted, to simply hibernate in a cave, a lone wolf, naïve, hungry, no oasis to quench my thirst.

And I wonder why, for sometimes I'd thought it was pointless, sometimes still, as well.  And besides, there was a road that I could've driven, as others do, a more direct route, smooth and simple, undemanding, crossing boundaries with ease, apparently, and all that should be an obstacle.

But what would I know of the mountain at all, the intimacy of its spiritual essence, its disposition, for those would've eluded my grasp, the magnitude of pride and honour that commands to be scaled?  But my passion intrinsic, my sensibilities committed to the nature of the beast within, like no other I know.  I'd soar that mountainous terrain, sprout wings, learn how to fly, yes, and pass that old road by.

And when I did start out on that venture, blind at first, nocturnal, skulking in the dark of night, eyes eager, flashing; green, then red, so green, and then so red, a young wolf, arrogant, treading ahead without observing the lay of the land, those very rules dictated by the head of the pack from which I chose to stray to charter new territory with maverick way, and where sense was the only thing to be found on sheer cliff faces that scoffed and told me to turn around.

And I did, discovered trails to at least pinnacles low, and clambered upon them, scrambled, my body, exhausted, starved, depleted, resting there till dawn when I could survey my domain, all that I would claim to know.  But when daylight broke, my imaginary reward; that vista, hazy, still, an early morning mist lingering on a precipice, a gaping mouth to swallow me whole, still, daring me to find a foothold to climb to the limit of the sky where an abyss of imagination waited to be soared, or to plummet me to a bottomless pit of no substance.

And catching sight of higher peaks off in the distance, my name whistling between them, I reached a treacherous terrain of which I knew better now, jagged, unwelcoming, infinite, detrimental to body and mind, but inviting all the same, challenging, goading me all the while, in that I did not have strength, dared me to continue that quest at my will, at my peril, threatened that it'd eaten stronger than I.  Yes, easy to hitch a lift, that road right there, beckoning.  But what of respect; of staking my flag?  No, that road has no end, no honour, no destination where I would go.

Forward, the only way, the hard way, and as it should be, lest I lay down and died, lest I relinquished all that I could prove myself to be.   And so I ate but a berry or two along the way, to sustain the body that feeds my mind, as I dragged it across a rocky terrain of high and low, my latent madness to accompany me, hearing it whisper all the while, encouraging, but mocking me all at once, confusing me, as I inched forward, for I could only inch, to reach out and grab that, which came into my sight.

Yes, I summoned that strength instilled in me from another terrain, another madness never mine to claim, but of which I suffered, conquered against the odds to return me strong, that brought me to my battle here today, where, at last, I may reach, on hands and knees, dizzying heights of a pinnacle of which I may breathe thin air to leave me breathless, for through my blindness, the very pain of my vision, I see vistas, laid out before me in pastures bright, and a mossy hill to roll down upon that will stop me at the feet of a couple of Sherpa's waiting at the foot of the Himalayas.  But I don't need them now.  Do I?

"Fuck off Sherpas," I said.

**Important Note**

The above post started out as a blog post about my writer's journey, it was only meant to notify my readers that an end of an era is here; in that I have actually been able to put the words, 'Final Edition' on my Prickly Scots titles.   Many will know that I have written many other stories since, but Prickly Scots has seen me through the years of my training, was the first book I wrote as an adult, initially, without any kind of training, and has been rewritten and rewritten time and again the more my skill evolved with the necessary training and by gaining experience as a writer - my Golden Gate Bridge, if you like.

However, over the last few weeks, the entire book got yet another overhaul, each chapter lovingly edited three times each, to try and implement something of the writer I am today - a very hard task when you have to deal with all the errors and rookie mistakes of your previously amateur self; I could've written a whole new book in this last month.  And I found while doing it this time, that I knew it would be the last, I didn't actually need, or want to change it much at all - a first.  That of course, as easy as the edit was this time, brought me to a realisation, of how far I've come these last seven years; from the early days of joining an amateur writing site, where I started to understand more of the formulaic aspects, onto becoming top writer there, to the writer I am today, who has garnered the attention of some pretty important people, including, recently, a highly respected international best selling author who sent me a lovely message based on something else I wrote, and told me that she had purchased one of my books.  Humph.  Now, if that doesn't mean that I've scaled a mountain or two, then I don't know what would.  I can only hope that it might hold up to her expectation.

Again, Prickly Scots Pts I & II are finally complete, if you have either of these, or the collective volume, please update your copy on both Amazon and Smashwords (especially if it’s a really old one, my God please do that!) and make sure that the copy you have says 'Final Edition' under the title on the first page.

Finally, not only did I complete Prickly Scots', but also earlier this year, I revisited my entire body of work, and brought it all up to scratch too, so, if you own any of my other books, they all may be updated (even if they don't say Final Edition) for they are all far more sophisticated than their early editions were - and beautifully formatted and indexed too.

I have no choice now to get on with all my new stuff now that my babies have finally left home.  I might even go out in the sun, and... oh yes... I found a little puppy under my desk.... his name is MacGregor, apparently.

Save a buck and get the two books for one here at Amazon or Smashwords

When is a cliché not a cliché?

When you put it together with another one.

With the complete rewrite of both Prickly Scots Pt's I and II nearing completion (go get the latest free update if you already have the book; Pt I contains many, many changes; fifteen additional chapters you'll want to read before Pt II is released, and the beginning of the book completely rewritten) I decided that perhaps the otherwise serious covers might throw people off as to the true nature of this book -  largely a comedy.  After reading recently about the importance of book covers, I decided to have fun with it instead.  However, the picture is not without merit... rather appropriate, actually, considering some of the irascible characters to be found in the story... namely a sentient flower race that take on the traits of whichever country the mysterious Blue Phenomenon has sent them to.  

I wonder which country that could be?

Note:  5 August 2012 - This book is temporarily unavailable.

Words are (truly) Cheap

So true!

Why is it that everything, and I mean, everything in life, is so bloody expensive, mass-produced or not - well... that is, all, except e-books?

But back to this picture here; it absolutely blows my mind that people will pay this, even upwards of $5.00, for (oftentimes, a weak) coffee – and oftentimes more than just once a day too – something that took only seconds to make by anyone at all, and that can be dismissed almost as instantly as simply being a poor experience if it's distasteful, but an experience, no doubt, they'll repeat over and over again, yet, most don’t want to pay more than $2.99, for what can often be the result of years of slogging, to read a lovingly compiled book; many expecting to pay just 99c – which, if it also happens to be weak, they’ll feel completely hard done by and suspicious of every other book that dares to ask for such an outrageous price.  There’s something wrong with this picture, literally; people obviously willing to feed their stomach willy-nilly, but not the mind; insult to their intelligence or not, a book has more value, surely, than what will end up at the bottom of a toilet bowl when all's said and done? Even if some books are better deposited there too.  But don't the two normally go together; body and mind?

Why then, do we put up with being so undervalued as authors?  The answer to that is of course obvious, all authors know that; the indie world of publishing making it easy for anyone at all to publish a book. This results in millions of people all trying to undercut each other in the hopes that their cheapie will sell millions.  But only the lucky few achieve that kind of success, usually with supreme marketing skill - or the funds to pay someone to do it for them - providing of course they've produced a well-written book.  Marketing, a harder task even than actually writing a book, in my own considerable effort (which after six months of following advice and sacrificing much of my valuable writing time, to that end, religiously putting the work in, but no matter how I much I do, no matter how many places I advertise, I don't see a difference in sales, and am at the point of seriously considering going back to contacting agents (they shouldn't be as busy, these days, should they?)

Don't get me wrong; undoubtedly it's a wonderful opportunity for authors to publish books that mainstream publishers perhaps won't even glance at, but there has to be some kind of distinction other than price, to discern between those who've actually taken the time to study the art and put their life and soul into writing books.  They need to break free from the tsunami of mediocrity and amateurishness that can barely splash around a few words; people with no understanding of the formulaic aspects of writing because they haven't bothered to take it seriously at all.  Yes, the slush pile, as far as I can tell, anyway, is now on the reader's computer in these modern times, via Amazon and Smashwords and other distributors, and no longer just the traditional publishers' desk - which, for all we've ever said about them, we might now have a better understanding of.  But still... books are no different from anything else that's widely available; and so, I ask again, why is it, in an expensive world of everything else, that e-books, and the talent that's put into many of them, are ALL EXPECTED to be so underpriced?

Just like the thousands of coffee shops we have to choose from, and anything else for that matter, there's good and there's bad, cheap and expensive, Dollar stores and Harrods, and everything in-between.  Why then, when many people see a book priced at more than $2.99, do they balk at it?  Why, even, when they see it being offered for free, which I personally completely don't agree with outside of promotional giveaways, and which did absolutely nothing for me in Amazon's KDP programme, do they value it even less than that?  It just doesn't make sense.  It doesn't seem fair.  But then, the world never has been.

This kind of low pricing is completely outrageous; any hard working author's work should be rewarded; they have a great skill, and, if they're like me, give up many aspects of normal life to bring the world stories for the love of it - and by author, I mean, any who've actually taken the time to at least try and hone their craft, whether still early on in their writing journey or not, and not one who simply thinks they can sit and type out a story because everyone at the BBQ say they're hilarious when recounting what happened last Saturday night.

And so, I’m happy to start seeing that certain organizations are beginning to try and come up with ways to separate the English from the (double) Dutch.  But perhaps an entrance exam, or something, like the one I had to pass to be employed as a freelance writer, or maybe we should have to prove something of our credentials at least - I don't know; I'm not the one with the answer, just a lowly writer, working for a pittance.  But one needs to be arrived at, soon, for true talent deserves to emerge from under the tidal wave that is the sea of indie publishing.  Hopefully, these companies are doing this with a view towards upping the prices of well-written books, too, and that people will start to bear in mind the old cliché, 'that you gets what you pays for'.  With everyone and their dog crying for pay rises these days, I think its high time, authors had a commensurate level of compensation as well - writing simply for the love of it, or not; if it's professional, published and available to the public, then it deserves more than the paltry amounts we seem to have accepted that they go for in our otherwise over-priced with everything else world.  Four or five books that can be kept for an eternity = the price of one designer coffee, gone in minutes?  Hmmm....

Also, on the whole coffee analogy thing, it seems appropriate to mention that it's unfortunate that the most popular chains are where most people tend to flock to, of course this happens because everyone else goes there, the human race inclined to be automaton, mainstream an inevitability.  But hasn't individual, true, talent, supposed to have been liberated in the indie publishing world?  Were we not supposed to be sitting in independent coffee shops stirring Grande cups of libretto at our leisure by now, chewing on our grubby laptops while staring into the universe and sharing the ideas that came from the strange abyss of imagination we've always travelled because that's what the people said they wanted?

Why then, in a so-called indie world of publishing, should we have to, increasingly, feel the need to appeal to a mentality that has no problem shelling out a fortune for a cup of froth simply because it's the flavour of the month?  Why do many writers jump on the copycat bandwagon that will inevitably drown the rest of us in the way that wizards and vampires (and undoubtedly to come, fifty ways to drink a coffee) have done?  Indie or not, someone, somewhere, is still telling the world what they're going to like next... and that's a shame.  Fashions and trends are one thing; but everything, everyone, pretty much, is the same all over the world.  And the ironic thing... people actually do this for the money?  Wake up and smell the sea-salt, that boat sailed; you're supposed to be an inventor; YOU create the next big thing.

As Alanis once said, I hate the world today.  And by the world, I do of course mean many aspects of the Internet and it's anti-social media - which I pretend to slot into with only a slightly better shape than I ever did in the real one as an oft misunderstood artist type.  And sadly, for all I hated about the real world too, it seems to have stopped percolating different varieties of coffee altogether, blending them all now in a huge gigantic melting pot that has cheapened, but not in my book, the true art of what being a barista might once have been.

Drama Queen

Poets are fairies… kind of

spreading their mystical word

All with long hair… probably

and glasses… sensitive rhymester nerds

Yeah, can be seen in coffee shops… usually

staring blankly out the window

herbal tea in coffee mugs… maybe

stirring everything but inspired libretto

Most of them smoke weed… obviously

I mean come on; poems are serious shit man

Stoking up words of paranoia... typically

and calling it enlightened inspiration

Ye-ah... they’re all fucking weirdoes, poets

floating around with chewed pens and grubby laptops

smiling melancholy at nature and stars… fucking souls

Get a real job... ya freaked out crazy crackpots

- S P Mount -